


First Bite

by fairdeath



Category: Markipler (Youtube RPF), Markiplier RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feeding, Markiplier - Freeform, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, you didn’t believe Mark when he told you about his odd dietary requirements. You didn’t believe that his mother was so strong as to carry a vampiric child in her human womb for 9 months. It didn’t make sense to you that a man who appeared so angelic could be born half a nightmare.</p><p>But they’re not all nightmares. Not him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Bite

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fresh Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740209) by [Missy_Mew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy_Mew/pseuds/Missy_Mew). 



At first, you didn’t believe Mark when he told you about his odd dietary requirements. You didn’t believe that his mother was so strong as to carry a vampiric child in her human womb for 9 months. It didn’t make sense to you that a man who appeared so angelic could be born half a nightmare.

But they’re not all nightmares. Not him.

His beauty made sense, then. The beauty brings in prey – an evolutionary trait that hadn’t changed as morals did. Vampires, he’d explained to you, used their beauty once like a lure for their prey. Now, vampire morals say that feeding directly from humans must be a long thought out, consider-all-other-options deal. He hadn’t explained why.

Mark stayed true to his upbringing. When his need for blood becomes too high, he drinks from bags of blood outsourced from hospitals across the state. Workers take the bags and sell them. Nothing about it is legal, but it potentially saved lives, and who could be scrutinized for that? He tries to keep it distant from you, though. He explained that he felt like a monster by seeking nutrients from blood that could have saved others, especially in your presence. You kept your mouth closed tightly against the ever pressing question; “What if you fed from me?”

You’ve grown to know when he is in need of blood. Although he eats food, and gains nutrients from it like you, blood offers something food cannot. When he’s in need of drinking, his complexion pales slowly and his fangs stand out, despite his usual control over them, and he becomes distracted by your scent. When you notice, you nudge his leg and tell him to refuel. He’s never happy that you’ve noticed, even if he returns looking like a new man.

It is an accident to see how much Mark had to put aside each month for blood. It truly is – he left his PC on before heading out in the morning and you want to turn it off for him. When you see the majority of his earnings go into half of his diet alone, a switch is flipped on inside of you. Why spend so much money when there is a free, reliable resource in his home? You need to know why feeding from humans is such a serious matter, and why you can’t be there for Mark for such an important aspect of who he is as a person.

You write a list of things to make sure were done before bringing it up with Mark. Good iron levels, for one. No point in being his source of nutrients if you aren’t stable enough to hold your own. Cleanliness was next. Bite areas must be kept clean at all times with unscented soap. He’d explained to you early on that perfumes affected him more so than most. He’d kissed the hollow of your throat and told you how amazing you smelled regardless. You never asked if that was the heterosexual male or vampire in him. The mix of adoration and fear filled you instantly, and, fuck, did Mark give you the best orgasm to date that night. Third was making sure to expose, what you assume are, typical feeding points. Neck and wrists out at all times unless necessary. The bait is set, and now you just needed the hook to latch in.

Arriving home from work, you find the house quieter than usual; no noise came from anywhere within the house, despite Mark’s car being in the garage. Asleep, then, you decided. Toeing off your shoes and unwinding your scarf, you stroll towards your bedroom, hoping to slip in beside him and join him in slumber for a few hours. Upon opening the door; however, you are greeted with nearly the opposite of what you’d expected. Instead of Mark sleeping soundly, near dead and on his back as usual, he’s curled into the fetal position, hair slick with sweat, pale complexion and weakness emanating from his aura.

“Oh my God, what’s wrong, baby?” you stutter out quickly, pressing a hand to his forehead to feel for the obvious fever he must have. When had this come on? Why had this come on? “You’re burning up, Christ! What happened?” you press further, sitting on the bed beside his shaking form.

“Forgot to restock,” he stammers breathily, eyes closed tight. “I’ll be okay in a while,” he presses out, “promise.”

Now or never. This isn’t the time to fool around, but how else is he supposed to get better? Bringing your wrist to his mouth, you feign courage.

“Drink from me. You can’t do this to yourself, and I can’t restock for you,” you explain, voice shaking only from worry, wrist unmoving, despite the fear coursing through your veins. You plead him, eyes filled with concern.

“It might change you. It’s like a drug,” he promises you, one hand coming up to hold your wrist, not pressing it further away, but not pulling it closer either. “It’ll hurt you. I never wanted to do that,” he explains, sorrow replacing the warmth in his eyes, never leaving yours. As your pulse works overtime, your breathing speed increases. You shake your head slowly.

“I want to help you. I can’t let you suffer,” you reply, voice breathily escaping your mouth. No matter how scared you are, no matter how unsure you are of how it will feel, how it will alter the both of you, how it will affect who you are and your relationship, you need to do this for Mark. You need to help him. His suffering and your suffering are the same thing. If it hurts Mark, it hurts you too.

“I love you,” he breathes against your wrist, pressing a kiss to the translucent skin covering his nourishment. “I’m sorry,” shaking his head, he grimaces before widening his mouth to cover your wrist. You didn’t think your pulse could get faster or harder, but there it goes, your heart nearly beating right out of your chest. Your eyes keep contact with the scene in front of you; Mark, paler than you’d ever seen him, weaker than ever, eyes closed, mouth enclosing your wrist.

An unintentional gurgle of choked whines falls from your lips the instant the pain registered. Your nerves on fire, you can feel Mark’s fangs deep in your wrist, keeping the wound open, tongue laving at the blood that pools from the incision. It’s like you’ve tried to hack your hand completely off with a butter knife. It’s like you’ve impaled your wrist on a rusty pipe.

Heat seeps into the wound, dancing across your skin from your wrist, tangoing to the tips of your fingers and waltzing up your arm, directly through your veins, caressing every inch of your skin. The heat kisses all the cells of your body, lavishing your nerve endings with adoration before setting them alight with a fire that edges the fence of mind numbing pleasure and slow torture. Head falling back, mouth agape, you can feel yourself whining with joy this time, eyes closed and taking all you could from the experience. You can feel Mark’s hands caressing your skin, relighting the fire the bite gave kindling for. His hands – warm, calloused, large, strong – hold your arm, running fingers across delicate skin as your blood leaves you and recharges him. You hear your mind tell you to let him drain you because _God_ this feels like heaven. You’ve never felt more in love, more adored, more important than you do right in this moment, with the love of your life taking nutrients from you, kissing your veins with fire and ice, with a passion and love you cannot begin to compare to anything you’ve ever felt before. The fire under your skin continues to grow, tips of your toes warmed and an arousal you’ve never felt before threatening to leave its dormant hidey hole, as the light headedness begins to set in over the arousal like an electric blanket. Opening your eyes once more, you see the ceiling light, fuzzy as it is, sway from side to side, and you decide that this is as far as you can take.

Lifting your arm had never been so troublesome until now. Engaging the muscle in your left arm, you feel the heat course through your veins more intensely than before, and whine at the rush of pleasure as you bring your hand to Mark’s face. Pushing the hair from his forehead, you linger there, absorbing the feeling of his soft locks between your fingers. You murmur, “No more,” before smacking your lips and enjoying the combination of the exhaustion from having blood taken and the high from… whatever _that_ was. Feeling the heat intensify on your wrist, you deduce that it must be something in Mark’s saliva. Is that why kissing him is always so good? Is this what he meant?

“I love you so much,” you hear someone say distantly, a lot stronger than remembering hearing it previously. Eyes closed again, you sit with your wounded wrist in Mark’s hands, the other in your lap. You open your eyes for the final time to reassess Mark’s health. No longer pale, livelier, actively stronger once more… Good. It worked. Nodding at your work, you sigh and crawl to lie against him, pressing every inch if your heat soaked skin against his own. Wrapping your unwounded arm around him and pressing your head against his chest, you breathe in deeply, swallowing his scent and aura, now much stronger and lively. He begins to speak again, “I –”

“Nap first, talk later,” you scold him, shaking your head against his chest. The feeling of heat under your skin is slowly turning to heightened feeling in your cells, a form of its own lightness, and you press yourself against him further to swallow what you can of it, pressing a kiss to his sternum. You’ve never been so aroused or stimulated, but the light headedness from blood loss easily wins out; a nap is first on your to-do list, second is to ask Mark what the hell just happened.

 

Waking alone is unexpected, as is the lack of pain in your wrist. Bringing your arms above your head, you stretch and wait for the pop in your back before lowering them and opening your eyes. The room is dark, and the sheets beside you cold. How long had you been asleep and when had Mark left you? _Why_ had he left you?

Holding your wrist in your other hand, you sit up in the bed, sheets tangled around your hips. Looking down to where Mark had wounded you earlier, confusion fills you. Rather than a vicious, gore inspiring wound on your wrist, all that remains is a slightly raised pink scar across your skin. You turn your wrist over, checking the other side. Nothing. Eyes wide, you check your other hand. Maybe you’ve confused which hand he had fed from. Your wrist is clean – better conditioned than the other. No scar in sight, no raised areas. So you hadn’t imagined it.

How long had you been asleep for?

“What the fuck is going on…?” you ask the empty room around you, brows knit in confusion. Why is your wrist healed? Why did Mark leave the bed? What happened? “Mark?” you call out, hoping he’d not gone too far. He wouldn’t leave you after that, would he? Waiting, you stare at the pink scar, caressing the edges of it with free fingers. Despite having been numb when you went to sleep, the area is almost _too_ sensitive now to the touch.

The footfall you hear shouldn’t be so relaxing. Mark leans in the door, face full of confusion. “How do you feel?” he asks tentatively, hands gripping the door frame from above, strip of stomach and happy trail hairs slipping from beneath his shirt.

“What the fuck happened, Mark?” you ask in disbelief, eyes unmoving from your wrist. There is no accusation in your voice, no regret. You’re filled with confusion and need answers to keep your sanity intact. Mark drops his hands from the frame and holds them across his stomach defensively. He slowly steps towards the bed with definitive hesitance, eyes unmoving from your figure.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brows knit in worry, eyes full of care and concern for you. He steps close enough to see your wrist now, and the worried shaking of your body. “Oh,” he breathes in near relief.

“ _'_ _Oh’_?” you imitate, “What happened, Mark? How long was I asleep?” your voice fills with anxiety and fear. You see him step closer to you, and feel the bed dip as he deposits his weight upon it.

“You fell asleep before I got a chance to explain,” he starts. “You said, ‘nap first, talk later’ so that’s what you did. That’s… admittedly probably my own fault. I did take a lot from you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” his words fill you with dread as he apologises repeatedly. What’s wrong with taking as much as he did? You’re fine now… Apart from the freakishly healed wound. Your eyes meet his for the first time since before he drank from you, and suddenly it dawns on you how serious this must be to him with the look he’s giving you. He looks as though he is guilty of brutally murdering you, and yet all he did was seek renewable sustenance from you.

“Explain to me now, then,” you begin. “Why does it look like I was bitten six weeks ago, and not two hours ago?” you ask, holding your wrist out to him. Mark sighs and holds your wrist in his own hand as though you’re a fragile baby bird. His long, slender fingers dance across the bite mark softly. Slowly, he drags his index finger across the scar, stopping on each tooth mark. His canines left a larger mark than the others, since they were the only ones to truly pierce your skin, though his other teeth left a light pink, almost invisible scar across your flesh.

“My saliva has increased healing properties. The cell turnover rate in mouths is already pretty fast, but because of the whole vampire thing, it makes the turnover rate increase exponentially. So when I bit you, that’s what happened. That’s why you healed up so fast; that’s why you regenerated blood to replace what I took from you so quickly,” Mark slowly explains, giving you time to process between sentences.

“And that’s what the feeling was?” you ask in a murmur, worried for the answer. Your eyes fall to your wrist. Mark near grimaces at the question.

“That’s… different,” he sighs, steeling himself to further his answer. “When our fangs have pressure applied to them, they excrete a sort of… drug. It acts similarly to ecstasy, I suppose, but instead of just making _everything_ better, its purpose is to make the person it comes from better. It’s a sort of payoff for the person we feed from to keep coming back. It can cloud who they are until they’re just a walking blood bag.” He wraps both hands around yours, holding you close. “I never want to do that to you,” he whispers, eyes filled with pain and anguish.  You shake your head and your eyelids flutter.

“You won’t,” you promise him. “I trust you,” falls from your lips as you push yourself closer to him. You pull your hands free from his grasp and wrap your arms around his neck before pressing your lips to his. Slotting together, you both try to explain all of your feelings through your kissing; Mark is conflicted, grateful, and loves you so much. You are certain, strong, and love Mark so much. You break the kiss, breath intermingling. Leaning back, you rearrange your body to wrap your legs around his hips and sit in his lap, boxers against jeans. Grasping your waist, he pulls you in closer, realigning your lips, expressing his adoration and apology through physical love. You are so in love with this man, vampire and all, and by God are you going to make sure he knows it.

 

Mark is still as against you seeing him feed as he was before he’d fed from you. He continues to make sure you don’t see him bring the bags home, don’t see them in his hands, don’t see or taste any traces in his mouth.  He’s even more self-aware of when he needs to feed now, and still spends just as much on his supply. On a lazy Sunday morning, sheets wrapped around your waist, naked bodies pressed together in a post-coitus embrace, you ask him. “Why won’t you feed from me?”

His reply has never been so definite when he tells you, “Because I don’t want to,” and you’ve never been so quickly angered in your life. Shocked, you sit up, one palm pressed to his stomach, one on the bed beneath you for support.

“ _What_?” you screech, confusion and disbelief filling your voice. “What’s wrong with me that you _don’t want to_ , Mark?” you demand, anger beginning to boil from within. What had you done? He’d fed from you before; did you taste bad? Did you do something wrong?

Mark jolts up from his lying position, hands coming to hold you by the arms in place. “That’s not what I meant. That came out terribly,” he tells you, distress in his voice. “I meant I don’t want to feed from you because I don’t want you to become addicted,” he explains. “I don’t want you to be controlled by me,” he murmurs, eyes falling to look at the piled sheets between you. He takes a slow, and yet shallow breath before continuing. “You taste… God, you taste amazing. Better than anything I’ve ever tasted,” he promises you, lips forming a sad smile.

“Mark, I’ve seen how much you drink. A pint every second day wouldn’t get me hooked, would it?” you ask, eyes alight with the idea that maybe you have a fight here. “Or you could take half a pint, especially with the healing rate,” and then, one last jab; a low blow, but God, do you want to win here. “You said I taste amazing. Why settle for TV dinners when you could have a homemade meal?” you fumble with his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm, a trick you’d learned early on calmed Mark and turned him to putty.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, shaking his head, eyes glued to his hand in your own.

“I don’t want to see you spend half your income on blood when you could spend none of it for higher quality, Mark,” you retort, expression unintentionally screaming _I won, I won_ over and over.  Slowly, Mark looks up towards you, slouch unchanging, expression slightly less saddened.

“We’ll try,” he decides. “We’ll try, and if I see even a hint of you changing, we stop,” his promise threatens you, eyes hard and brows knit in decision. Nodding frantically, you bring your hands to cup his face.

“I love you,” you remind him, eyes full of adoration for the man in front of you. You bring your lips to his in embrace, sealing your promise together.

 

“The first feed is the worst,” he tells you the next night, your back against the headboard, knees crossed, his hands holding yours. “I won’t have to take as much because I’m still above empty, so you shouldn’t be so light headed or far gone, okay?” he promises you, seeing clarification that you understand. Nodding, you run your fingers across the scar from the last time he fed. There’s barely a mark; just a faint glimmer in the right light.

“Okay,” you reply, shifting your wrist in his grip. Slowly, he brings your wrist to his mouth, planting several soft kisses to the skin just above where he’d taken from you the last time. “I trust you,” you murmur when you recognise the hesitance in his body language, “I love you.” Nodding in acknowledgement, Mark looks through his lashes up to you, adoration flooding his deep brown eyes.

 Pain.

Fire, burning fire. Heat, pain, rusted knives cutting you to pieces, side to side. Agony.

Numbness and residual heat fill your veins, holding you close like a warm blanket. A whine of pleasure flicks through your system. Mark’s hands are caressing your skin, working you through the bliss that flows from cell to cell. You can feel his fangs dislodge from your wrist, tongue lapping at the skin to catch the pooling blood, saliva healing the wound over rapidly like smaller caresses of your wrist.

Mark sounds a little distant when he tells you, sincerity coating his voice like melted chocolate, “I’m sorry; I love you.” Nodding absently at his words, you crawl toward him, wrapping your arms around his chest and cradling yourself in his lap.

Your voice is soft when you reply with, “Thank you; I love you, too,” before you nuzzle into his chest, bliss lingering in your veins. Smacking your lips and letting the feeling of your being wash over you, you feel your hunger hit you. “Can we get burritos in a bit?” you ask, looking up towards Mark with your eyes closed. “Please?” His deep throated chuckle rumbles through the both of you, shaking your body and increasing your awareness of everything outside of your body.

Mark rubs your back, hand moving in circles as he tells you, “Definitely. I could go for seconds anyway,” he jokes, pressing a kiss burdened with a toothy grin into your hair.

 

After the first official feeding, everything had been going great between Mark and yourself. As he fed from fresh blood, he grew stronger, and it sure did help that he wasn’t spending half his income on liquid meals anymore.  Not only does Mark look physically stronger, but his personality is thriving with increase of quality in his diet. But your definite favourite benefit of being his meal source is-

“The shower has our names written on it, bub,” his voice fills your ears and mind, wrapping his arms around your torso from behind as you wash the last of the dishes, pressing a kiss to your neck, lingering for just long enough as to imply what is in store. Smiling, you bring your hands up to lay across his, and you turn your head to the side to look at him.

“Well, we’d better get to it before someone writes theirs over them, then,” you prompt him, stretching your neck to interlock you lips with his. Turning in his arms, you own around his neck, wrists crossed behind his head. Lips locked, his tongue taunts your bottom lip, begging for approval. Smiling into the kiss, you lips part and your tongues dance, and without your notice, Mark hoists you up onto the kitchen bench, knees bent and encircling his waist. Immediately, his hands grip your hips, firm and definite in their grasp. Unintentionally, a wanton whine escapes your lips. Mark smirks in response, hands dragging up your sides towards your breasts, pressed against his chest in response to his kisses.

He dances his hands across your chest, hands stopping over your breasts, holding but unmoving; teasing. You never wore a bra around the house, and this was the reason way (though you’d never tell him). Displeased, your own hands find his and you press them closer to your chest, clutching your hand at the same pace. Upon hearing the moan that falls from your mouth, Mark sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, nibbling on it, edges of fangs threatening to piece the skin, while his hands massage your breasts, fingertips digging lightly into your flesh. As he lavishes your breasts with attention, your hands find their way to his jeans, fumbling with the button for a solitary moment before dragging the zipper down, and you’re sure to make your finger graze across his swelling cock as you do. Doing so causes him to bite down further on your lip, his fangs breaking the skin as a filthy moan is pulled from his mouth. You’d deny if asked that his fangs do it for you, but… God, do they do it for you.

Aching at how sensitive your breasts have become from his continuing ministrations, you pull your hands back to grip the edges of your shirt before dragging it up, only stopping to finish the kiss that you’re sure Mark is trying to suck the life of you from. Or, possibly, savouring the small droplet of blood from between the fang indents. Once your shirt is off, Mark kisses down your neck, hands slipping behind your back, large, warm palms pressed to your shoulder blades. As Mark kisses, nips, and even drags his elongated fangs along your neck, you bring your hands up to card through his hair.

“I want to try something,” Mark murmurs as he presses kisses to the valley of your breasts, “Do you trust me?” You nod, frantically, feeling his deep voice caress your soul, his lips brushing against the skin over your pounding heart.

“Always,” you breathe, a hand weaving its way into Mark’s hair at the base of his skull, the other “always, Mark.”

You feel him smirk as he presses open mouthed kisses to your chest, slowly making his way to your right breast. Enclosing a nipple with his mouth, he rolls the hardened nub in his mouth, tongue circling it, pushing the tip of your nipple to caress the tip of his razor edged fangs. He opens his jaw slightly, tongue still lavishing your nipple with attention. Sucking more of your flesh into his mouth, he catches the flesh with his fangs, edges threatening to break skin. Arousal and adrenaline flood through you, fingers digging into the locks between your fingers.

Gasping, you beg, “Oh my God, please – ah – p-please, Mark. Oh my God, Mark, please, Mark, Mark, Mark,” as your legs wrap around his hips and pull his pelvis flush against your own, grinding down against him in search of friction, jeans inching their way down his legs. Feeling the guttural groan bleed from Mark’s lips, you pull his head closer to your own in a final attempt to stop the teasing and continue on. It’s a blissful surprise when he does

Pain

Tearing skin and stretching sk–

Pleasure

Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. Heat caressing your nipple, kissing your skin cells alight, pressing pleasure in between each cell membrane. Mark’s tongue against your nub, hills and valleys on the muscle like individual vibrations as he swirls his tongue across the skin, flesh on fire as each hand cups a breast, pad of each finger an exaggerated recasts of knitted scarves as he drags them across your chest. Small locks of his hair fall across your chest, each strand caressing, delighting your skin. Each breath Mark takes causes a rush of air across wet skin, sends a shake down your spine in excitement.

“Ah- _ah_ , oh my God, Mark-,” you gasp, eyes closing, body breathing the pleasure erupting across your breast. Slowly, Mark moves away from the affected nipple, and you hear a whimper fall from your lips behind the ecstasy rushing by your ears. Mark kisses the area around the raise nub, every crease, every temperature difference, even the minute feeling of his lips, throbbing with his heart beat ever so faintly, bleeds into you as though it is a beanbag bullet.

The feeling of his lips and tongue against your left breast is drowned out by the intense pleasure emanating from your right nipple, but you focus your mind on his actions, absorbing the feeling of his tongue laving over your breast, your nipple, catching the nub between his teeth. You look down towards him, hand still locked into his hair, and take in the sight in front of you.

Mark’s face is flushed, cheeks rosy and pupils blown. His spit glistened lips are pressed against your skin, pulling back occasionally to reveal his white teeth, your raised nub between the rows, his tongue repeatedly coming to press against your breast, peeking out from behind his teeth.

“Oh- Oh my God –,” you moan, head falling back, chest rising and falling rapidly, back taut and pressing yourself into Mark’s arms. Mark chuckles, detaching himself from your skin, fingers digging into your hips.

“No, just me. Close, though,” he jokes, that tantalising smirk glowing between kisses against your skin. Upon pulling your breast tissue into his mouth once more, he increases the pressure, fangs once more breaking the skin, pain a dull ache as the pleasure emanates from your right breast.

“A-ah!” you cry, arms curling tighter around Mark, hand in his hair tugging probably too hard to feel good. Mark washes your nipple in attention and affection, sealing the skin, before moving on, blanketing the valley of your breasts with kisses, sucking the skin over your heart like a damn hoover, breaking the vessels and marking who you belong to – God, do belong to him. Your soul, spirit, mind, and every cell of your being belongs to him.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you chant like a mantra, cupping your hands against his jaw, pulling him upwards to express your love with more than words. He complies, pressing a kiss to your jaw before closing his lips over yours. Your tongues dance as your hands snake their way down his clothed torso. As your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, Mark drags his fangs across your bottom lip once more. Gripping the fabric in your hands, you pull Mark’s shirt up, revealing the soft skin of his stomach and chest.

He pulls away from you, his hands leaving your skin cold. He raises his arm, and you pull the fabric from his torso, throwing it across the room. There is a moment of silence as you absorb one another’s presence, attention, beauty. Your eyes express everything to one another; love, devotion, care, affection.

“God, I love you,” Mark breathes, hands flying back to your hips, hooking his fingers into your underwear. “Lift up,” he murmurs, lips pressing to yours. Complying, you plant your hands against the counter and pull your pelvis up, allowing him to pull your underwear from your hips. The cold breeze against your core sends a shiver up your spine, as does the shock of his fingers teasing against your inner thigh. Mark falls to his knees, hands caressing your thighs. He kisses the inside of your knee, along your inner thigh, slowly working his way to your core.

As he nips the skin on your left inner thigh, he searches against the counter for your hand. Upon finding it, he pulls it into his own, holding it. Mark kisses the skin by the joint between your core and inner thigh before baring his teeth to you in warning and burying his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

Pain

Searing, burning pa-

You’re drenched from making out with Mark and his ministrations against your breasts. The feeling of his kisses against your thigh prompts another rush of wetness to your core, and the pleasure, white hot pleasure, forcing itself through your veins lights your clit on fire with it.

Moaning uncontrollably, you bring your hands to Mark’s hair, burying and locking your fingers in the dark locks there before you feel him push your knees apart a little further.

The cool breeze Mark breathes against your clit is near too much, and the feeling of Mark burying himself between your thighs, tongue immediately coming beyond his lips to lap at you _is_ too much. A wave of pleasure; one different to what you’ve been experiencing, washes over you; every extremity relaxes and clenches simultaneously, your orgasm pulsing through every nerve. You’re coming harder than you can remember doing so, and Mark is still between your thighs and is dragging you through it, lips locked around your clit, tongue assaulting your bundle of nerves with reverent enthusiasm, fangs tucked away, only hinting the smallest amount; enough to graze your oversensitive flesh, but no more than that. As the feeling of your orgasm dulls and is replaced by an endorphin rush, you open your eyes, hand still woven deep into Mark’s hair, and lock eyes with him.

“You’d better get up here and fuck me,” you order him, “or else.” Smirking, he complies, pushing himself up from his knees, your hand falling from his hair.

“Well then, I’d better get to it,” Mark tells you, thumbs digging in between his boxers and hips. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint such a gorgeous woman, would I?” he murmurs, pushing his boxers and jeans down, and tugging them off before coming to press a kiss to your swollen lips.  

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you weave one hand into the base of his skull and take a firm grip. “How dare you keep this from me,” you growl, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth to bite firmly, the taste of yourself lacing his lips, arousing you to levels you’d never admit. Upon returning his previous kiss thoroughly, Mark smirks into your mouth, causing you to kiss his teeth.

“’M sorry,” he murmurs, unapologetically. “But I have an idea of how I can make it up to you,” he promises. Mark grips your hips with his left hand and brings his right to lift your chin. Rubbing his thumb across the curve of your chin, he pulls you close to his face, your breasts pressed to his pectorals, chests rising and falling in sync, torsos flush. Pressing his lips to slot against yours, Mark licks up into your mouth, your tongues dancing together.

He drops his hand from your chin, driving it down your neck, across the gooseflesh across your breast, down your stomach to rest against your inner thigh. He waits a moment, looking in your eyes for any uncertainty. Upon seeing none, he walks his hand towards your centre. You spread your knees and lock your feet behind his back, heels against the plush plane of his backside. With no further hesitance, Mark sets his thumb against your clit, pressing firmly against the nub, rolling his thumb softly, as his index finger circles your entrance. Once, twice, and Mark presses his finger within, crooking it with a _come hither_ motion in search of that spot within. Happy with how prepared you are, he slowly brings in the second, crooking it to match the first finger.

Your lips still intertwined with Mark’s, you gasp harshly as he pulls the wind from you through your G spot. Brows furrowed in pleasure, mouth agape, Mark presses kisses down your neck, over your jugular, across your clavicle without stuttering his ministrations.

Grasping his hair firmer in your hand, Mark removes his hand from your core and grasps his neglected cock in hand. Thick and impressive, Mark drags his hand along the length for a moment, the other pressed flat against the counter as his lips return to press to yours.  Pulling your feet closer to yourself, you force Mark’s hips closer, his knuckles brushing across your core.

“Fischbach, you’d better get to the fucking or I’ll do it myself,” you warn, breath barely above an unconvincing whimper. Mark follows through with the former, lifting his left hand from the counter to hold your hip, the other aligning the two of you.  He looks to you, eyes glittering with adoration, before capturing your lips in his and pressing the head of his penis past the threshold. Slowly, like always, he pushes in, careful to not hurt you. Despite you relentlessly pressing your heels roughly into his backside, he remains like a rock; unmoving, and only inches forward with small thrusts.  Mark lifts a hand to your hair and balls it in his fist before moving his other to the small of your back, pulling you closer and forcing himself deeper, practically seating you in his arms and on his cock. You aren’t complaining.

With the hand in your hair, Mark tugs your head back, forcing you to bare your neck to him as he begins a relentless pace of thrusting. With eyes made to focus on the bare ceiling, your other senses, already heightened by Mark’s fangs, go into near overload. The scrape of sharp teeth against delicate skin across your neck, the tug and hold of your hair in his fist, the repetitive, unforgiving pace of his hips slamming into yours are all more…. Just _more_ than usual. You feel his cock caress your walls, his hands emitting a permanent warmth into your soul from the edges out. He presses kisses against your throat, teeth peeking out from the edges of swollen pink lips, dark locks splaying across your own skin between you both.

His hand from your hair untangles itself, dragging itself over your shoulder, across the hill of your breast. A small detour to roll your pert nipple between long fingers before it dances down your stomach, between both of your bodies, to make its way to where he’s sheathed himself. Wordlessly, breathlessly, Mark’s fingers catch your clit, a finger either side, and begins to massage the small bundle of nerves as he assaults your body with pleasure. Full of passion and affection, you bring a hand to weave through Mark’s hair before tugging his head up to face yours. After a brief moment of taking in each other’s ecstasy, you surge to one another, mouths colliding in a kiss that less resembles kissing and more resembles pressing open mouths together. As Mark’s ministrations continue, both with hand and hips, you find your breath seeping high pitched whines. Upon realizing this, Mark changes his angle, placing his cock between his middle and index finger, knuckles out. For a half moment you’re confused, until he thrusts as deep  as possible, knuckles brushing against your clit like fireworks exploding beside you.

“Close,” you inform Mark, bringing your arms to his back, fingers pressing crescent moons into the plane expanse of muscle along his back.

“Yeah,” he grunts in response, hair slick and skin glistening with sweat from exertion. Mark removes his hand from between you both before pulling one of your hands from his back, intertwining his fingers with yours. With one more thrust, you feel your body let go, a second orgasm washing through you, almost as intense as the last. You feel your walls contract, and distantly hear Mark moan in response before halting at the hilt to meet you. With your head thrown back, electricity firing through your veins, you register Mark rest his head against your shoulder. With the hand still pressed against his back, you pull your fingers up along the expanse of muscle to hold the back of his head against your collarbone. Immediate euphoria passed, you lift your head to press your lips against his hairline.

“Think we can actually make it to that shower now?” you mutter, smile pressed against this beautiful man’s hair, his own smile pressed to your neck.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry mom[.](http://bbvckybarnes.tumblr.com)


End file.
